


Dreaming In The Dusk Of Man

by leonidaslion



Series: Suite!verse [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-08
Updated: 2011-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-17 18:30:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jo longs for a hero and Sam is ... well, <i>Sam</i> ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreaming In The Dusk Of Man

**Author's Note:**

> [Art](http://charlie-d-blue.livejournal.com/9415.html) by charlie-d-blue  
> [More Art](http://charlie-d-blue.livejournal.com/13379.html) by charlie-d-blue  
> [Art + Fanmix](http://abendiboo.livejournal.com/13726.html") by abendiboo
> 
> [Vid](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZyyQMBKWG3I) by loverstar  
> [Trailer](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CWxN30zvGw8) by loverstar  
> [Vid 2](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CJmC3R8PME4&feature=related) by loverstar
> 
> [Audiofic](http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/category/seriessuiteverse) by juice817

Most nights, Jo wakes from dreams of fire and blood. She wakes from memories of the cracked, burnt-out husk of a mall in Burke, Delaware, and the pitiful cluster of charred skeletons huddled at the base of its main escalator: father holding his child, mother with delicate baby’s bones cradled in her arms. Jo wakes from those nightmares with her throat tight: muscles clamped down on the shriek in her throat.

Mustn’t call out, after all. Mustn’t add to the screams. The air is already thick with them: Sam Winchester’s symphony of flesh and bone and pain.

She hates him. She hates him for murdering everything good and beautiful in the world. She hates him because he used to be one of them, he used to be a hunter, and now he’s nothing but a Judas.

Jo hates so much and so fiercely that it makes her sick at times, and then she kneels in front of the toilet with her mother’s dry, cool hands holding her hair out of the way and pukes. After, she draws a shaking hand across her mouth and spits, “I hate him, I hate him,” and her mother murmurs, “I know, honey. I know.”

Sometimes, she thinks that her skin is changing: thickening and hardening with the force of her hate. In those moments, it’s Dean who keeps her safe, keeps her human. She holds his face in her mind like a talisman; she whispers his name to herself in the night to block out the screams.

Dean Winchester, Dean, beautiful good strong Dean.

It’s insane that two such different people could come from a single source, and in her mind Jo has taken to calling Sam John’s son, and Dean Mary’s, as though it explains anything.

“Why?” she asks one day. It has been a month since she last saw sky _(no windows here, unless you count the peephole that looks out onto the hallway they aren't allowed to enter: for their own safety, Sam says)_ and she feels itchy all over, like she's outgrown her skin. No one answers, perhaps haven't heard over the screams, and so Jo asks again, louder: “Why is this happening?”

Deacon glances up at her and then busies himself again in one of Bobby’s books _(they smell like Sam, like sulfur, Jo refuses to touch them)_ , and Bobby laughs. Bobby laughs, and shakes his head, and mutters, “Because John Winchester was a fucking idiot.”

Pursing her lips, Jo’s mother shoots Bobby a disapproving glare and says, “Don’t matter none why. What matters is how we stop it.”

But she knows, yes she does. And Deacon and Bobby know too. They whisper the secret back and forth when they think Jo’s asleep, or if she’s in another room _(the number of their prison is six, six rooms six cells six places to die)_. They others are hiding it from her, whatever it is, and sometimes she thinks that they don’t need to bother: that she already knows, or would if she let herself.

Sometimes, Jo finds herself remembering the way that Sam’s eyes always followed Dean around the roadhouse, like the world had gone dim and he couldn’t see anything else, and her heart flutters in her chest and her stomach turns and she thinks of Dean’s hands instead: Dean’s strong hands curled around a beer, ring clinking against the glass.

The image melts into daydream, where Dean holds her and whispers promises in her ear. The air tastes like sunlight, and Jo parts her lips and tilts her head back and he kisses her, he kisses her soft and slow the way she knows he would, and his hands, those strong, brave hands are on her cheeks, and Dean will save her, he will …

She comes awake with a start, choking on a sudden inhalation, and doesn’t know, for a moment, what woke her. She doesn’t even remember falling asleep, but she’s lying in her bed in the dark with the lingering, imagined taste of Dean on her lips. Jo sits up with her back against the headboard, placing one hand on her forehead. Her skin is slick and feverish, but she’s shivering because the room is cold, so cold.

She doesn’t even know he’s there until he speaks.

“Have you ever read the Bible, Jo?”

She jumps, letting out a little squeal of fright, and an insubstantial wisp of power coils around her throat and stops her voice before she can draw another breath to scream for help. As though anyone—Deacon, Bobby, her mom, even Dean—could save her. Her eyes dart around the room, rabbit wide and showing white, and she finds him sitting in a chair in the corner. He’s still, just one more shadow in the room, but as she looks she catches a faint glint of light off his teeth. His cruel smile.

“You must have, good little hunter like you.”

Sam’s voice is soft. Mocking. But there’s something beneath the taunting tone. Something seething and raw and red. Something that sounds like nightmares, and death rattles, and the blunt edge of screams.

He shifts, stretching his long legs out in front of him and interlacing his hands on his stomach.

“You remember the bit with Moses? Bet you do—it was pretty impressive, right? Water to blood, boils on the body … real juicy shit. Everyone remembers Moses. What they have trouble with are those pesky Commandments. You’re a good girl, though, aren’t you? Mommy’s little princess?”

The power wrapped around her neck flexes, pulling tighter, and Jo’s hands fly to her throat, digging for something she can’t actually touch. Her pulse roars, pounding in her head and chest and wrists, and she lashes out with her feet, kicking the sheets to the floor.

“Tell you what,” Sam continues conversationally. “You name them all and I won’t leave you for Mommy to find in the morning choked to death on your own vomit. How’s that?”

She’s crying, too terrified to hate. She’d be begging if she could get the air for it, and then she _has_ air—Sam’s power loosening its hold—and she’s sobbing, “Please don’t, please God don’t kill me, don’t—”

“I don’t remember that one,” Sam tells her, “but the begging is cute, so I’ll give you another shot.”

Jo hears his words through her fear, but they don’t make any sense. She doesn’t understand what he wants, doesn’t understand why he’s doing this to her. All she understands is that she’s going to die here, alone and afraid, and oh fuck she wants her mama.

Then Sam prods, clearly and slowly as though he’s talking to a small child, “Thou shalt not …”

“Kill!” Jo cries wildly. “Thou shalt not kill.”

“Good one,” Sam says, approving. “What else.”

“Th-thou shalt not steal. Thou shalt not bear false witness. Thou shalt honor thy father and mother. Thou sh-shalt not commit adultery. Thou shalt r-remember the Sabbath and keep it holy. Thou shalt have no other God before me. Thou shalt not take the Lord’s name in vain.” She says them all together, in a rush as they come to her. The order is jumbled all to hell, but hopefully that doesn’t matter, hopefully—

“That’s eight. Two left.”

All the spit in Jo’s mouth dries up. Oh God, she doesn’t remember any more than that, doesn’t remember which ones she has already offered, doesn’t—

“Thoushaltnotworshipfalseidols,” she blurts.

“That’s right, Jo. No golden calves. What else?”

“I-I don’t. Please, Sam, I—”

There’s a warning flash of gold from the shadows—Sam’s eyes, his merciless eyes—and Jo swallows the rest of the plea. Her hands are shaking. Her heart is beating so rapidly that it hurts. She can’t remember the last one. She _can’t_. Suddenly, she can’t see anything but her own face: eyes bulging and skin gone to grey. Her mouth is open and filled with vomit and her mother is standing over her and screaming …

In the corner, Sam starts humming the Jeopardy theme music.

 _Bastard,_ Jo thinks sickly, drawing her knees up to her chest. _You fucking bastard._

“Time’s up,” he announces abruptly. “Anything you want to say?”

Her throat closes up on her for a second—not unnatural this time: just panic, just adrenaline—and then opens enough for her to choke out, “Fuck you.”

“Judges?” Sam sings out, cutting his face to one side. He looks back again, immediately, and continues, “I’m sorry, but the answer we were looking for was, 'What is: thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s wife or property.’”

Power snaps around her throat, crackling, and then yanks her up so that she’s dangling against the wall: toes just brushing the soft fabric of her pillow. She’s choking but then again she isn’t: it’s uncomfortable as hell, and scary, but somehow she’s still managing to get air into her lungs.

“Time for Final Jeopardy,” Sam tells her as he stands. “Double or nothing. You ready for your question?”

There’s no reason to believe he’ll let her go. There was no reason to believe it before, except that she _wanted_ to believe it because she wanted to live. And as fucked up and horrible as the world is these days, she _does_ want to live. Jo jerks her head in a nod.

When it comes, Sam’s question is deadly gentle. “Which commandment were you breaking?”

Jo doesn’t understand. She wasn’t doing anything, damn it! She was just sleeping, just minding her own business and dreaming a nice dream for once instead of a nightmare, and—Her eyes widen in sudden realization and Sam steps closer.

“Did you think I wouldn’t know? Did you think I couldn’t see the way you looked at him? Did you think I couldn’t smell it on you?”

Jo tries to toss her head in denial, but Sam’s power has bubbled out over her skin, encasing her in a burning cocoon.

“Thou. Shalt. Not. Covet. Him,” Sam hisses, and each word sends a whip of power through her, making her cry out. More power floods her mouth, muffling her shouts, and then Sam is there, standing on her bed and closing his hand around her throat.

“He’s mine,” he growls. “All of him. Everything.”

So much possessiveness in his voice, and so much madness, and all of it wrapped around Dean. Dean, who ran from Sam: Dean, who was faded and flinching and had metal bands around his wrists, like chains, and God only knows what Sam has been doing to his brother since he took him back. Jo’s hate rises, bright and shining on Dean’s behalf, and she spits in Sam’s furious face.

Sam blinks, like he wasn’t expecting any defiance on her part, and then wipes the spit away with his free hand. When he lifts his eyes to hers again, he’s smiling in a way that makes Jo’s gut go cold.

“You should hear him, Jo,” he whispers, voice low like a secret. “The sounds he makes. You should see him: all that naked, shivering skin.” His voice drops even lower, insinuating. “You should _feel_ him. So warm and slick.”

Jo’s stomach turns. Either Sam is torturing Dean, or he’s … he’s been …

“He’s good, Jo,” Sam purrs. “All that stamina and enthusiasm. And the goddamned _mouth_ on him.”

“You sick bastard,” she chokes out.

Sam’s grin widens, gleeful, and he says, “Takes two to tango, baby.”

Crying—oh God, _Dean_ —Jo shakes her head. “You raped him, you son of a bitch! Your own brother.”

“No,” Sam says. His expression is suddenly dark and intense. “I would never hurt him like that. _Never_. I love him. And he loves me.”

Love. As if he knows the meaning of that word.

“I don’t believe you.”

Sam’s shoulders hitch in a shrug. “Ask Bobby. He’s known for years. Hard for him not to have noticed, the way we were fucking each other like rabbits under his roof.”

 _More lies,_ Jo tells herself, but she thinks of Bobby’s expression whenever the subject of Dean comes up, and of the whispered conversations, and of her own uneasy memories, and there’s enough doubt left inside of her to twist her stomach in knots.

Slowly, Sam lowers her back down and leaves her standing on her pillow. His left hand strokes her face lightly.

“So, you see, Jo. He’s never going to touch you. He doesn’t see you. He never did. He only sees me. He’s mine.”

“He wouldn’t,” Jo insists. Her chest feels seven sizes too small and her throat is clogged and her stomach rolls. “Dean wouldn’t. Not with you. You—even if you weren’t his brother, you killed everything. He hates you.”

Sam’s eyes flash and Jo understands that she has just killed herself. She swallows thickly as his fingers shift on her throat: thumb sliding to rest over her pulse and pushing down. Her eyes slip shut because she can either watch it happen or she can accept her end bravely, but she can’t do both.

Jo isn’t surprised that Sam is the last thing she’ll ever have seen—she’s been expecting it ever since Bobby and her mother pulled her out of Duluth hours before it was seared from the earth—but she does wish that she could have seen Dean again. She wishes she could have told him what he meant to her.

Chuckling, Sam massages her pulse with his thumb. “You’re right,” he agrees. “Dean’s upset. He’s even a little angry. But he doesn’t hate me. He doesn’t have it in him to hate me. And pretty soon he’s going to realize that and then …”

He leans close, breath hot on her cheek. Smells like sulfur.

“Then I’m going to fuck him until he screams loud enough for you to hear him. It’ll be my name on his lips, Jo. My hand on his skin, my cock in his ass. I’m going to bury myself inside him and he’s going to beg me for more. I’m going to take him over and over again until he can’t remember anything but me. Inside him. Loving him. Just like he loves me.”

“No,” Jo breathes. She’s shaking with fine, uncontrollable tremors. “He doesn’t. He _doesn’t_.”

“Once I’ve fucked him, I’ll let him come visit and tell you himself,” Sam promises, and then releases her and steps away. The mattress bounces slightly beneath Jo’s feet and when she cracks her eyes open Sam is on the floor again and, miraculously, moving for the door. He pauses in the doorway, one hand on the frame, and looks back.

“I don’t want to upset Dean, but if you dream about touching him like that again, we’ll have to have another talk.”

Except he doesn’t mean ‘talk’. Not really.

Sam smiles at her shudder. “Sweet dreams,” he tells her, and then she blinks and he’s gone.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When Jo’s exhausted body finally drops her into sleep again three days later, Sam is there waiting for her. His gold eyes track her nightmares, tainting everything with fire and ash and tears.

Watching.

Waiting.

This time when she wakes up, Jo screams.


End file.
